Take Me to Church
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: "There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin" . . . and one not-so-innocent comment, taken too much to heart, leads Olivia and Amanda down a sinful path that neither is prepared for. Can their better angels prevail, or will they succumb to the demons they unleash? (Devilishverse. Angsty smut with a plot & some emotional hurt/comfort. Three chapters.)
1. The Giggle at a Funeral

**A/N:** You know how sometimes you plan to write a 1 - 3k word one-shot, but you end up writing 15k words instead? Yeah, that's what happened with this fic. My beta pointed out to me that it could be split up kind of perfectly into 3 chapters, and since I wrote this for her anyway, I'm going with that. Let me also just preface by saying I never had any intention whatsoever of writing a Rolivia bondage fic. I think it's a TERRIBLE IDEA for these two. But I should know by now to never say never, especially when I have such convincing friends & readers. I almost decided to make this story an AU because I didn't like the direction it was headed in, but I'm keeping it Devilishverse. I haven't figured out where it falls in the timeline... I was going to set it around the same time, or shortly after, the long fic/3rd Devilish installment I'm working on, but now that this one's finished, I think it can safely be wedged somewhere between "Hunger" and the 3rd fic. **TRIGGER WARNING** (mostly for upcoming chapters)**!** Dub-con, referenced rape, PTSD **TRIGGER WARNING! **Did I mention this was supposed to be a PWP but turned into an angst-ridden bog of feels and porn and OMG-what-have-I-done? Because it did. There's probably more I wanted to say, but I'll save it for the next a/n. I basically skipped Christmas to write this, y'all, please read & review.

To Amy

* * *

If the Heavens ever did speak  
She is the last true mouthpiece  
Every Sunday's getting more bleak  
A fresh poison each week

\- "Take Me to Church," Hozier

* * *

**Chapter 1:** The Giggle at a Funeral

**. . .**

The safeword was "church."

It started mainly as a joke, after they found out about Amanda's thing for church lady pantyhose. And that had only been revealed because of the booze. So, to be accurate, Olivia found herself dressed up like a librarian in the bathroom of an expensive hotel suite because of the tequila shots, a notorious facilitator of bad ideas.

She hadn't done that many. Public intoxication was unbecoming of an NYPD captain, and her companions were drinking enough for three or four high-ranking officers. Amanda and Daphne tossed back the shot glasses like they were filled with water, instead of Jose Cuervo. Turned out, Daphne could handle her hard liquor better than she'd handled the marijuana they all smoked last Valentine's Day. Amanda was even more proficient, her determination to "drink Daphne under the table" a thing to behold. For someone so small, she could drink like a fish and still remain fairly coherent. If Olivia had consumed half that much, she would have ended up on her ass.

And she almost had, anyway: from laughter. Daphne was the one who started it, of course. Anytime the conversation turned remotely—or in most cases, overtly—sexual among the trio of friends, the tiny court clerk was typically to blame. This time she asked about the strangest fetishes they had encountered on the job. Nothing gory or inhumane, she specified.

"Just weird af." Her eyes were alight as she leaned in, though their cerulean blue shade was never dull. She made greedy gestures with her dainty, manicured hands, indicating readiness for whatever perversions they could throw at her.

When Olivia and Amanda exchanged a look and agreed in unison that it was the guy who liked to amputate women's legs, Daphne had gone very quiet, very somber, and gazed forlornly at her cane. Then, after letting them stammer apologies for a full thirty seconds, she grinned, chirped out a bright, "I'm just fucking with you," and went on sipping her Sex on the Beach.

"And if that's your idea of not gory or inhumane, I don't even want to know what kinks you two got goin' on at home," she'd added, fending off the wadded straw papers and a mangled maraschino cherry—Amanda had stabbed it repeatedly with a plastic cocktail sword, until Olivia placed a calming hand over hers—that sailed in her direction.

But of course Daphne did want to know. Less than a minute later, she had asked, phrasing it with a bit more tact than originally posited: by what nonsexual object or idea did they get the most turned on?

"Since you're both staring at me like you just had ice pick lobotomies and forgot how to sex, I'll go first." Daphne gave a luxurious shake of her dark, wavy mane, assumed a regal pose, and spoke as if she were narrating a dramatic scene. _Dun dun dun!_ "Mine is . . . buns."

"Hot cross or hot dog?" Amanda asked, then scrunched her shoulders and proceeded to snicker hoarsely at her own joke like a villainous cartoon cat.

"I think she means ass cheeks." Olivia had glanced at Daphne for confirmation, but her eyes widened and she set the front legs of her stool down abruptly before the answer came. "Please tell me you don't mean rabbits."

Daphne shook her head and waved her hands for quiet, the synchronized gestures resembling those of the indefatigable _it's a small world_ dancers at Disney. The animatronic dolls, emphatic and irrepressible as they were, had nothing on the little brunette. "Oh my God, none of the above, you sick freaks. I meant hair buns."

"Ohhh," replied the policewomen, again in perfect harmony. Amanda's elbow was planted squarely on the back of Olivia's chair, a hand resting at the nape of her neck. There had been only one possessive squeeze, when the waitress gazed a bit too openly at Olivia's cleavage—they _were_ in a lesbian bar and the blouse _was_ very low-cut—otherwise the touch was pure reassurance. Every so often, the blonde would stroke Olivia's long ponytail, gliding it through her fist, top to bottom, but never tugging.

"Is that why you like ballet so much?" Amanda asked, flourishing the straw she had used for nothing other than chewing. Teeth marks traveled up and down the clear, gnarled plastic, which she swished about as if it were pirouetting midair. "I thought it was the leotards."

Olivia scratched at the side of the Halligan's beer bottle she'd been nursing for half an hour, peeling the label off with her thumbnail. She had always heard that peeling off beer labels was a sign of sexual frustration, but that had to be bullshit.

Thanks to the detective at her side, she was more sexually active now than she had been since her twenties. And not just the vanilla sex she had grown accustomed to with her male suitors. There was a little bit of experimentation in college, when she finally had some distance from her mother's rigid sexual guidelines. But Serena's continual warnings about men who "only want one thing" had firmly taken root by then, and Olivia's days as a rookie cop reinforced that opinion. By the time she made detective, and even before transferring to SVU, she had seen every type of sex game gone wrong and the innumerable, horrific ways men gained their gratification through women. She liked sex. Always had. The control it required her to relinquish, the trust—that was a whole other ball of wax.

It was different with Amanda. Olivia didn't have to hold back with her like she did with men. It turned out there was some truth to what Cici Taylor, the kidnap victim who had been lured into non-consensual threesomes by her plastic surgeon boyfriend, had said about having sex with someone who understood your needs, your fantasies, your body. Someone you trusted with every part of yourself.

They didn't do anything violent—biting, scratching, spanking, yes, but not hard enough to leave marks; choking, however, was completely off the table—and they stuck to the lite versions for most of the kinks they did try. Role playing had become a favorite and surefire way for both of them to get off, allowing a certain freedom they didn't feel as themselves, no matter how comfortable and safe the relationship. It was a chance to explore the parts of themselves that they sometimes weren't aware existed. Olivia hadn't known she liked to be topped until Amanda was the one doing it.

Despite a few setbacks, such as difficulty reaching orgasm or a tendency to later overthink choices made in the heat of passion, her sex life was the healthiest and best it had ever been. Even her fellow officers noticed a difference. Fin had told her she looked "I dunno . . . shiny or something," and Kat kept asking her what skin and hair care products she used.

_It's called Sex by Amanda Rollins_, Olivia thought, smiling to herself. _And it's way out of your price range, Officer Tamin._

Realizing she had completely tuned out her companions, Olivia snapped back to the conversation at hand just in time to hear Daphne explaining that she thought buns were sexy because of the mystery, and she liked watching them come undone. A strip tease for the hair, she called it.

"What do you expect, I grew up watching _Star Wars _and fantasizing about Princess Leia," Daphne added, hands cupped widely at either side of her head. "You've seen the size of those buns. No one will ever compare."

When Amanda finally finished cackling and wiping the tears from her eyes, she assumed an innocent expression at the sight of Olivia and Daphne's expectant faces. Each of the glasses in front of her were empty, so she reached for Olivia's beer and took a slug, stalling.

"What?" she asked, screwing up her features in disgust at the warm brew, as if she hadn't already downed several drinks that were roughly the same potency as lighter fluid.

"Fess up, Mandy Lou." Daphne extended her hand, motioning for Amanda to either fill it with cash or dirty details, which were a much higher currency for the clerk. She rolled her eyes when Amanda played dumb and slapped her palm. "Make it good. Something even your boss lady here doesn't know about."

Olivia quirked an eyebrow at the younger woman. She was the boss lady in question, and while the title made her feel a little bit like a female Bruce Springsteen, she didn't hate it. In fact, she was curious to hear Amanda's answer and find out if there really was a turn-on she didn't know about. She cast a sidelong glance at her girlfriend, who was massaging the back of her neck so absently and so diligently she almost winced.

"Ugh." With the hand not kneading up a storm, Amanda rubbed at the leg of her distressed jeans. She'd worn the faded blue pair that were only a shade or two darker than her eyes and enticingly snug about the hips and thighs. Her ass looked amazing in them, of course. Olivia couldn't wait to peel them off later that evening and dine until those thighs were clamped around her ears, that tight little ass cupped firmly in her hands. She gulped down the rest of her beer and restrained the urge to smash the bottle against the ground and carry Amanda off to bed right then, caveman-style.

"Ugh," Amanda repeated, dropping her head forward in defeat and utter despair. The wavy strands of her long blonde hair stood out starkly against her navy blue boat neck sweater. Earlier that evening, when Olivia complained that she felt overdressed, Amanda had "classed up" her own look with a pair of caramel-colored high heels. She dangled one of them from her toe now, bobbing it up and down until the shoe clattered to the floor. "Fine. I like . . . "

The pause dragged on, and the other two women leaned in so close, they were in danger of toppling forward from their stools. They shared a puzzled look when Amanda mumbled something under her breath.

"Penny what?" Olivia asked, guiding the curtain of pale waves back with her finger to get a peek at Amanda's face.

"I think it was 'bendy hoes,'" said Daphne, an ear cocked towards the detective, her palm curled behind it. "And trust me, those aren't all they're cracked up to be."

Huffing loudly, Amanda sat up straight and flicked the hair back from her squared shoulders. "Panty. Hose. I like pantyhose, okay?"

Well, that was definitely new.

"Oh yeah, I've heard of that." Daphne nodded knowingly and sipped at her blush pink beverage. "It's pretty common. You've got yourself a nylon fetish, little missy."

"It ain't a fetish," Amanda griped at her friend, though her eyes were trained on Olivia. She smiled a bit warily, or as warily as someone could be, whose inhibitions had gone down the hatch, along with the tequila, a few drinks ago. "I just think they're sorta sexy."

"If you like camel toes, crotch sweat, and feeling like a summer sausage with two more summer sausages for legs, then yeah, they're hot as hell." Gazing over the brim of her glass, Daphne caught the looks they both shot at her, and she pretended to shrink down meekly in her seat. "Sorry, it's the vodka. That's a perfectly good and valid fetish, Amanda darling, and I'm not judging you in the least."

"It's not a—" Amanda groaned in exasperation and let her head drop again, backward this time. She was going to have whiplash if she kept that up. "Forget I even said anything."

Scooping up the hand Amanda was using to pick at the frayed denim on her knee, Olivia transferred it to her own lap for a reassuring pat, a small squeeze. "I wanna hear about it. What do you find sexy about them? Seeing them on someone else, wearing them yourself, how they feel to the touch . . . ?"

"Any of it." Amanda's cheeks colored, although it may have been the glow of neon liquor signs from behind the bar. She gave a sheepish shrug. Combined with her vaguely tousled hair and rosy complexion, the gesture made her look even younger. "But mostly seeing them on someone else."

Under the table, she rested her hand on Olivia's knee and fiddled with the pleated pink chiffon that covered it. The skirt was nearly the same color as Daphne's drink, lined with a heavier satin fabric; the gauzy top layer was similar to nylon in texture and sheerness. Amanda couldn't stop rubbing it between her fingers. "My Sunday school teacher wore 'em all the time. She used to take off her shoes to sit on the floor and play with us. Her toenails were always painted red. I couldn't stop staring at them in those pantyhose. The seam and everything. Mm-mmm."

"Wow," Olivia said, trying to picture the scene. Little towheaded Mandy, enthralled by her unsuspecting Sunday school teacher's stockinged legs and feet. It was the eighties, meaning the clothes would have been terrible—probably some oversized skirt suit with big buttons and even bigger shoulder pads. And the pantyhose.

Olivia had worn more than her share of the constrictive undergarments in the eighties and most of the nineties, and she remembered well the calisthenics that went into putting them on. All that hitching and squatting. Not exactly her idea of sexy, but she had attracted quite a bit of attention with her long, slender legs whenever she stepped into a pair of nude L'eggs.

"Man, what is it with you and church?" Daphne asked, lowering her voice on the last word and momentarily peering upward as if she expected God to smite her right then and there. "You punched your V-card at church camp _and_ you fantasized about your hot Sunday school teacher's control tops? How old were you?"

"Well, first of all," Amanda said, snaking the arm draped at Olivia's back around her shoulder, one finger raised, "I'm from the Deep South, honey child. Church is everything. Second of all, I did not say that time at camp was when I 'punched my V-card.' And no, you're not getting _that_ story, so don't even ask."

Daphne, who had visibly swelled with excitement at the mention of Amanda's virginity being lost at some other unknown juncture, sighed and deflated like the air had been drained out of her. Honestly, Olivia felt the same way, though she didn't react. She'd been curious to hear the story of Amanda's first time for quite a while.

"Third of all." Amanda brandished three fingers, close to Olivia's ear. "I didn't say hot. She was kind of plain, bless 'er heart. But she was sweet and she wore this rose perfume that just . . ." She inhaled as if she were relishing the scent of a splendid bouquet.

A giggle from Daphne cut through the reverie. Suddenly aware of her audience again, Amanda opened her eyes and resumed an air of nonchalance. "As for fantasizin', I was, like, six or seven, so . . . no. I mean, I did offer to help her reenact Mary Magdalene washing Jesus' feet with her hair, which I'm sure you'll turn into some Freudian sex thing, but I just wanted an excuse to touch her pantyhose. Oh, and I stole a pair from the store a while later. Hard as hell gettin' that big plastic egg to fit in my coat pocket."

"Mandy Lou! You were a little sex fiend and a thief?" Daphne's eyes danced merrily, belying her scandalized tone. She picked up the laminated drink menu from the end of the table and fanned herself with it. "I am shocked and disappointed. And I'll be even more disappointed if you don't tell me what you did with them. Was it kinky? Oh my God, was it bondage? Please say it was bondage!"

"Daph, calm down. I was eight years old." Amanda held up her palm like a traffic cop halting oncoming vehicles. She let it drop back against Olivia's shoulder, idly stroking the white silk of her loose wrap blouse. Even after five minutes in front of the mirror, strategically placing the dramatic V-neck, and several discrete adjustments since then, the top of her lacy white bra was still clearly visible. But Amanda had given it her full approval (her exact words were: "Baby, that shirt makes me wanna slap my grandma") and she had barely stopped touching it all evening.

She was the only lover for whom Olivia had ever tailored her wardrobe. Men were easy. You just threw on something slinky, with lots of cleavage, and they thought you were a goddess. Women paid attention to the finer details—the sensation of a particular fabric, how well it accentuated various parts of the body, the aesthetics of seeing it removed and revealing those parts. Amanda was no different, in spite of her keenness to dive right into sex. The detective liked a good seduction as much as the next girl, and Olivia knew how to dress the part.

Apparently she needed to incorporate pantyhose in the future, though.

"Bondage came later," Amanda added in a sultry little drawl that grabbed both women's attention, for very separate reasons. Olivia recognized that voice from hearing it in the bedroom, during some of their most intimate moments. Just thinking about it made her cheeks warm. "Much, much later."

"Ohmigod." Daphne sounded like she was about to hyperventilate. She fanned herself twice as fast with menu, her hair streaming out at the sides. She was kicking up so much wind, the cocktail napkins fluttered across the table. "Oh. My. God. You guys _are_ into bondage? You told me you didn't use your handcuffs for that stuff. You sit on a throne of lies!"

Amanda's eyes went as wide as the bottom of Olivia's empty beer bottle, and she immediately tried to backtrack. But the damage was done. The seed, no matter how ill-conceived, was sown. Olivia should have known better; she should have realized Amanda was showing off for their friend. But that voice. And the fact that Amanda and Daphne had seemingly discussed the topic before.

"When did you say that?" Olivia asked, trying to sound casual, not accusatory. Not unsteady. She hadn't been bound against her will since she'd been kidnapped by Amelia and Calvin two years earlier, and she barely remembered that, beyond an intense feeling of discomfort and Amanda's account of finding her tied to a bed. Before that, it was when Lourdes Vega forced her to cuff herself; and before that, it was when she'd been taken hostage in the Crivello's townhouse.

None of it compared to being cuffed (tied, duct taped . . . ) to a table or a bed, being groped and kissed and hurt while you waited to be raped and murdered. None of it compared to being chained to a door and having someone's dick shoved in your mouth.

Those things were behind her now. She carried handcuffs with her for a living, for God's sake. They were just objects and she was desensitized from years of slapping them onto criminals without a second thought. She could handle a goddamned conversation about them. She could handle anything.

"I never said that," Amanda hurriedly replied, her grip tightening on Olivia's knee and shoulder. "Don't listen to her, she's drunk."

"Yes, you did. Yes, she did, Liv." Daphne pointed emphatically at the blonde, like she was fingering a suspect in a lineup. "It was at the Halloween party. I asked if you were bossy and she said you weren't, and then I said— Okay, well, maybe I assumed that meant you didn't use cuffs in bed, and she just didn't deny it, but still. Lie by omission."

"Daph? I love you dearly, but shut the hell up," said Amanda, laughing the comment off, although she clearly meant it. She offered Olivia an apologetic smile and attempted to move the subject along by reminding them whose turn it was, but the liquor hadn't affected Olivia's tenacity at all.

Her curiosity, however, had increased sevenfold.

"Is that really something you're into?" she heard herself inquire. Hushed and uncertain, but out loud nevertheless. She shouldn't be asking in front of Daphne, and normally she kept a tight lip about such things in public; but it felt safer this way, while they were laughing and teasing. With Daphne there to interject and keep them from delving too deeply into the subject, they could leave it at the table, along with the paid check. At least that was what she told herself at the time. And knowing her own faulty history at dishonesty, she believed it.

She had always believed she knew exactly what she wanted in the bedroom.

"No. I mean . . ." Amanda hemmed and hawed for a moment. Her knees were bouncing frantically under the table, causing the glasses on it to rattle like a minor earthquake had just hit Hudson Street. "I have tried it, and it's fun and all, but it's not somethin' I can't live without. I like it when my hands are free to roam." She trailed her fingers up and down the side of Olivia's arm, demonstrating.

"Tie up your girlfriend, then, doofus," Daphne suggested, and slurped the dregs of her mixed drink. "You've done it before, haven't you, Liv?"

Lost in thought, Olivia almost missed the question entirely. She knew from past—and vague—comments Amanda had made, and from Reese Taymor's testimony against Deputy Chief Patton, the disgusting son of a bitch had restrained Amanda while he raped her. He'd pinned Taymor's wrists above her head, and MO's seldom varied. Once a sick prick, always a sick prick. She had assumed, based on her own experiences, that Amanda would also be diametrically opposed to any sort of bondage during sex. But the detective didn't _sound_ opposed. As a matter of fact, before Daphne had really started in, Amanda sounded . . . nostalgic.

"Huh?" Olivia took hold of the beer bottle in front of her, just to have something in her hands. They were tingly. "Oh. Um, yeah. Couple times."

"Really?" Amanda asked it so softly, she was almost drowned out by the background music. Some celestial-voiced female singer or other from the nineties. Natalie Merchant, perhaps.

Olivia frowned, scratching at the sticky label residue on the bottle with both of her thumbnails, determined to get every last bit off. She didn't like Amanda's dubious tone. As if someone like her couldn't possibly have engaged in something so risqué as bondage. As if she were too damaged.

True, it hadn't been recently. And true, it was never more than playful dabbling with scarves that came unknotted at the slightest tug, but she had done it. Of course, she hardly remembered the guy's name anymore (Ryan? Robert? Something with an "R"), and she had agreed only to tie him up, not the other way around. She'd never met anyone she trusted enough to let tie her up. If any of the men she'd dated had asked to do so—Roger! And it started as a joke because of the bondage scene in a movie they had just watched—she probably would have dumped them on the spot. Men who liked to tie up women had to be perverted on some level; she knew that even before becoming a cop. She had always known that.

God, maybe she was just too fucking damaged.

"Yeah, when I was younger and more adventurous," Olivia said, with a laugh that came out as more of a cynical sniff. "And braver, I guess."

"Ain't nobody braver than you, darlin'. Then or now." Amanda squeezed her around the shoulders, pulling her close for a peck on the temple. She was sincere enough that Olivia almost believed her. If only her other hand hadn't been gliding up and down Olivia's thigh, savoring the delicate material that covered it.

Maybe then, Olivia could have let it go. Because it was that moment—with Amanda fondling her skirt, so infatuated; with Daphne watching them, envious; and with her own hands incessantly picking at the Halligan's label, Amanda's mauled drinking straw a few inches away on the table, tied into a knot—those ordinary, fleeting seconds, when she made her decision.

She knew damn well what she wanted, what her girlfriend wanted but was too afraid to ask for, and she wasn't going to give her attackers a foothold in their life—hers and Amanda's—or their bedroom any longer. Time to be brave again, Captain Benson.

With that decided, she actually felt as though a weight had lifted. She felt really damn good. And the blonde at her side _looked_ really damn good. Impulsively, she turned and kissed Amanda square on the lips, not caring a bit that they were in plain view of a large crowd, including their lascivious friend. (Daphne crowed in delight.) When they parted, Olivia held her beer bottle aloft until she got a nod from the bartender.

"You guys want another round?" she asked, already indicating that the refill was for the table. The bartender, a young woman with colorful tattoo sleeves and a cute asymmetrical bob, smiled and gave her a wink. It was the same girl who had been staring at her tits.

"I'm 'bout to slap that stupid haircut right off that little hussy, if she doesn't put her eyes back in her head," said Amanda, licking the beer taste off her lips from Olivia's sneak attack kiss.

"Well, I mean . . . have you _seen_ your girlfriend?" Daphne asked, gesturing at Olivia like Vanna White presenting a particularly attractive string of consonants. "With the hair and the eyes and the lips. And the . . . " Her voice trailed off, eyes lingering on anything but Olivia's face. "And the lips . . . "

Olivia was still giggling and pushing Amanda's hands away, the detective pretending to adjust her top to a more modest fit, when the drinks arrived. But no matter the amount of alcohol consumed, no matter the shameless flirtation just across the table, Daphne would not be deterred from her earlier question. She wanted Olivia's weirdest nonsexual turn-on and she wanted it now, dammit, she said, drumming her small fists against the table.

"Hmm." Olivia mulled it over with the Halligan's poised at her lips. There was no way in hell she was going to answer honestly, even if she had just experienced an awakening of sexual freedom. Telling the truth would mean admitting she found pregnant women irresistibly alluring—their full breasts and swollen tummies, their perfect glowing skin and shiny hair—and that was not something she cared to acknowledge, even to herself.

She hadn't noticed it until recently, or at least hadn't given a name to the fascination she felt when confronted with someone about to give birth. It wasn't exactly a physical attraction, so much as a deep reverence and a desire she couldn't quite pinpoint. And Daphne, God love her, wasn't getting her hot little hands (or her dirty little mind) on that one. There were some things that should remain private, no matter how avid your listeners.

A wicked smile formed behind the lip of the Halligan's, and Olivia set the bottle down with deliberate weight. She rotated the ridged bottom against the table for a slow, ticking effect, like a gradually turned combination lock or an ascending roller coaster. Good, she had their full attention. And then:

"Beer bottles," she said in the provocative tone she reserved for randy perps and for Amanda, when the detective played her cards right.

Daphne huffed, but her eyes continued to follow the bottle round and round. "Is this like that _Brady Bunch_ episode? Next, you're going to tell us your boyfriend's name is George Glass."

"Yeah, babe," Amanda agreed, but she wasn't looking away, either. "That's kinda . . . phallic."

"Not really. If you think about the curves, the smoothness—" Olivia grazed her fingers along the bottle, outlining each dip in the thick amber-colored glass. She circled her fingertip around the rim a few times, then drew it sensually across her tongue. "The taste."

"And they're so, so wet," she added breathily, collecting the beads of moisture that clung to the bottle like dew. She pumped her fist slowly up and down its neck, ensuring she had a captive audience. They were riveted, both sets of blue eyes wide and unblinking as she simulated a handjob for several more seconds.

Right when they were about to pop, Olivia stopped and flicked the condensation from the bottle at their flushed faces. They blinked as if she'd slapped them, though there couldn't have been more than an airborne drop or two per flick. "You guys are so easy," she said, and took a long pull from the bottle.

"Holy sweet hell, woman." Amanda gazed at her in open wonder—and maybe a little fear.

"Your girlfriend is evil," Daphne said, wiping her cheek with a napkin and handing one over to Amanda. "I think I'm in love with her."

**. . . **

* * *

_Chapter 2 coming soon. _


	2. Our Gentle Sin

**A/N:** Happy New Year, readers! I hope everyone had a great holiday. Figured you might like something to read before returning to the real world. I think the main thing I forgot to add in the last author's note was that there are several easter eggs tucked away inside this fic for things to come. Happy hunting. Thanks for the reviews of chapter one. Trigger warnings from last time still apply.

* * *

My church offers no absolutes  
She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom"  
The only Heaven I'll be sent to  
Is when I'm alone with you

\- "Take Me to Church," Hozier

* * *

**Chapter 2:** Our Gentle Sin

**. . .**

The safeword was "church."

That had been Olivia's idea. In fact, this whole thing had been suggested by the captain herself: the role-play inspired by Amanda's Sunday school crush, the hotel room where they would have plenty of privacy to act it out, the bottle of wine they consumed beforehand, and the restraints they would be using.

It had taken a lot of convincing before Amanda agreed to the restraints. That part was her fault, really. If she hadn't made that crack about bondage to Daphne the other day, right in front of Olivia, maybe none of this would be happening. She was still mentally kicking herself over that one. To be fair, she'd been slightly drunk and hadn't considered the consequences of her words—what they might stir up for Olivia. What they might even stir up for herself.

So, later that night, when Olivia had asked to be tied up, Amanda was almost too shocked to reply one way or another. Her instincts were to say no. The one time she had mistakenly pinned Olivia's wrists above her head during an especially intense make out session, she'd felt the other woman's entire body go rigid beneath her and hadn't needed to ask why the foreplay quickly fizzled out thereafter. But that had been months ago, and Olivia made a strong case for it being firmly behind them. She was ready, she said; and as long as Amanda was willing, she wanted to be bound during their next role play.

There were several terms and conditions Amanda had laid out prior to agreement. First and foremost, they could stop at any time. Obviously it was the ground rule for every single romantic moment they shared, but it bore repeating. She was so adamant about it, she had been the one who insisted on a safeword. Just that extra reassurance, because "no" and "stop" had failed them both so miserably in the past. ("I got it," Olivia had said, snapping her fingers the following morning, while Amanda was still half-asleep. "Church!")

Another part of the agreement was that Amanda would restrain Olivia. Only if it went well would they consider switching places. That had been Olivia's amendment. Amanda preferred it the other way around, but the captain was dead set on going first. Almost desperately so. It didn't sit quite right with Amanda, even now, as she paced back and forth in front of the hotel window that overlooked Midtown, hands stuffed into the pockets of her conservative pantsuit. (She was playing the female pastor. A bit of a stretch for Southern Baptists, but then, so was a torrid lesbian affair with the most beautiful Sunday school teacher imaginable.)

The outfit didn't require much effort this time. A pair of flats, a string of faux pearls, a headband to hold back her unruly bangs. She'd been too nervous to give it her all, as she usually did with these little games of theirs. No matter how much they had talked it over—and they had talked it to death, to the point that it began to feel more clinical than sexual—it didn't come as naturally to her as the previous scenarios. She couldn't tell if it was the bondage, the religious aspect, or Olivia's eagerness. Maybe it was the hotel room . . .

But they had stayed in hotels before. Made love in them, too. Not once did Deputy Fuckface Charles Patton cross Amanda's mind during those times. It wasn't like she thought about him that often. Nick Amaro and Declan Murphy had been a hell of a lot more Patton-like than Olivia—their builds, tempers, brute strength—but sleeping with them had never triggered Amanda, not even when they were on top, not even the few occasions her hands were pressed into the pillow or against the mattress. She'd simply pushed back and told them to roll the fuck over, to which they happily obliged. She had never felt trapped like that with Olivia, and there was no doubt in her mind that the captain would instantly stop at the least sign of discomfort from Amanda, with or without a safeword. So it didn't make sense why she should be nervous.

She was about to get laid by the hottest woman in New York City, who was currently in the other room, tarting herself up for Amanda's benefit. She needed to calm the fuck down and just enjoy having a girlfriend who went the extra mile.

And ready or not, here came that girlfriend now.

At the sound of the bathroom door clicking open, Amanda whipped her hands out of her pockets as if she'd been caught diddling herself through a hole in the material. Quickly, she clasped her fingers together behind her back and stood up straight, trying to look as clerical as possible. She'd briefly considered tucking the Bible from the nightstand under her arm, but nixed the idea. She was probably already on her way to hell for this one—no need to hasten the process.

A little bit of Amanda's apprehension lifted when she got her first glimpse of Olivia the Sunday school teacher. The captain had dressed down as well, with muted tones and not much skin showing. Conservative, but far from dowdy.

Her cardigan was pale gray, the color of mourning doves, and fit her tightly around the bosom, creating small, enticing gaps between the buttons. Underneath was the white blouse she had worn on her fake date with Rob Miller, the bushy-faced rat bastard who tried to intimidate her last year. (Amanda's belly had gone aflutter the first time she saw Olivia wearing that top; she'd wanted to be sick a moment later, when she found out _why_ her captain was wearing it.) The fawn brown skirt hit just below the knee, leaving enough space between the hem and her penny loafers for a clear view of the tan nylons. They gave her legs the airbrushed appearance that had so entranced Amanda at seven years old, seated on a playmat in the basement classroom of First Baptist of Loganville.

For someone who had barely attended a handful of religious services in her lifetime, Olivia sure knew how to dress for church. There was an honest-to-God gold cross hanging from her neck. Amanda herself hadn't even thought to do that—or else, hadn't dared.

"Did I get it right?" Olivia asked, touching the back of her long brown hair. She'd pulled it into a loose half-ponytail, soft and wavy tendrils framing both sides of her pretty face. Her glasses were on as well.

Perhaps it was the lack of badge, blazer, and three-inch heels, but she looked much smaller than usual, the way celebrities always seemed to in person. There was a vulnerable quality about her, and Amanda almost ended the game right there, until she realized it must be part of the persona. Olivia was frighteningly believable when she played helpless and afraid.

"Yeah," Amanda said lightly, a faint smile on her lips. She let her hands fall free at her sides, but maintained an erect posture. Apparently Pastor Rollins didn't slouch. "You're perfect."

Olivia managed to blush, ducking her head coyly at the compliment. Damn, she had the shrinking violet act down pat, too. Amanda really needed to step up her game.

"Well, not exactly perfect," Olivia said, her gaze meandering up from Amanda's ballet flats to the tapered slacks, from the slacks to the fitted blazer, and from blazer to black velvet headband. She studied the full ensemble over the top of her glasses for a moment, the barest hint of a smile on her nude lips. She wasn't wearing an ounce of makeup, her freckles left to run wild in cinnamon clusters across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "I've been having these . . . thoughts."

Amanda was having some thoughts of her own. She was thinking about all the other places on Olivia's body where those delightful freckles resided, of the sounds Olivia made when they were kissed, nibbled, licked. In fact, she'd gotten so caught up in the reverie, it took a second for her to realize the captain had spoken in character. Miss Olivia the Sunday school teacher was the one having _thoughts_.

Clearing her throat softly, Amanda tugged at the bottom of her blazer, though it wasn't out of place, and went to the window, drawing the curtains closed. With the city lights no longer streaming in, and only a single lamp turned to the dimmest setting in the corner, the room went hazy soft, dreamlike. Or like a candlelit altar, she mused, then quickly dismissed the idea.

She went to Olivia, placing a palm at her back and guiding her over to have a seat on the bed. When they were both situated at a respectable distance, turned sidesaddle to face each other, Amanda folded her hands in her lap and said, "What sort of thoughts are you having, dear? Can you describe them for me?"

"Oh no, I couldn't." Olivia touched her cheeks as if they were aflame. Her hair swished back and forth behind her when she gave a vigorous shake of her head. "It's too embarrassing. I'm afraid of what you'll think of me. What— what God will think of me."

_Amen, sister._

"Shh." Amanda scooted closer, until her knees pressed against Olivia's. She gathered the captain's hands into her own, holding them like she was about to pray with a troubled congregant. Yep, straight to hell. "There's no need to be fearful or ashamed, sweet one. We all sin and fall short of the glory of God sometimes."

_Romans 3:23_, Amanda recited in her head. Her grandmama, who had taught twelve-year-old Mandy the verse and proudly played the organ during every one of her choir solos, was probably rolling over in her grave right now. But all thoughts of Grandmama Brooks disappeared when Olivia gave a little flick of her ankles, casting aside the penny loafers and hooking one shapely leg over the opposite foot. The skirt rode up on her knees, and she glanced down in dismay, but made no attempt to cover them.

"Even you, pastor?" she asked innocently, reaching over to toy with the pearls at Amanda's throat. "But you're so righteous. So good."

"Hm." Amanda gulped. Her saliva suddenly felt too sticky to swallow and there were goosebumps marching along both of her arms, from the touch that ghosted across her collar. Thank goodness she'd worn long sleeves. It wouldn't do for a member of her flock to see their pastor shudder.

She allowed the hand Olivia had released to settle upon one stockinged knee. The pantyhose were soft, but still taut enough that they had to be brand new. They were warm from Olivia's skin, her legs delectably smooth beneath the stretchy material. For the life of her, Amanda could not remember why she had been so reluctant to try this role play only minutes before. She was no nylon fetishist—despite what Daphne Tyler might tell you—but right then, her inner child was going completely ape shit in her Sunday best.

"Even me," Amanda said, briefly stroking Olivia's knee before moving higher up, craving softer, fleshier. Hotter. She was going too fast for her character, but if anyone asked, well, Pastor Rollins was a very hands-on minister. "I'm a sinner just like everyone else. And no matter what you say here, I won't judge you. Now, tell me about these thoughts."

Olivia's eyes had drifted shut when Amanda's hand slipped under her skirt, massaging at her inner thigh. She pressed her palm against the bedspread, leaning her weight on that arm, head resting on her shoulder. Tilted like that, her hair tumbled well past her elbow. It was a mesmerizing sight, but so were her toes, fanned apart inside the nylon casing. The nails were painted red. "Well, you see, pastor," she said, and opened her eyes to gaze nakedly at Amanda, "it's a bit awkward because they're about . . . you."

"Oh?" It surprised Amanda that her voice didn't come out as a squeak, with Olivia trailing a foot up and down the side of her leg, tweaking at the cuff of her pants with those devilish red toes. The movement granted her more freedom to roam, and she slid her hand higher still, teasing Olivia through the crotch of the pantyhose. The captain wasn't wearing any underwear. "Go on."

A breathy sound escaped Olivia's lips, which she moistened with a quick dart of her tongue. "They're about things I want you to do to me. Dirty, wicked things."

"What kinds of things?" Amanda heard herself phoning in the dialogue, but her mind was preoccupied with the sensations at her fingertips—the warmth, so silky and sweet; the wet, just beginning to dampen the gusset that kept her at bay, a tantalizing little barrier; the nylons themselves, as tight against Olivia as a second skin. She couldn't take her eyes off Olivia's lips. They were gently parted, a glimpse of pink tongue, even warmer and wetter than what she sought below, inviting her in.

Reading Amanda's mind, Olivia took the hand that wasn't between her legs and brought it to her mouth. She lowered her lips over Amanda's index finger, accepting its full length right down to the knuckle, and sucked it with open, unabashed longing. If not for the half-lidded eyes and the thing she was doing with her tongue, it almost seemed innocent, that need to have Amanda with her, inside of her. She drew back slowly, gliding the finger from her mouth until it quit her lips with a soft smacking sound.

"Like that," she said thickly, her breath catching when Amanda rubbed at her clit with a firmer touch. Her foot had come to rest on top of Amanda's, and she crinkled up her toes inside the stockings. "And that. Sometimes it's all I can think about. All I want. And I do things I shouldn't, like—"

Completely engrossed in the story, Amanda forgot to respond at first. Her tongue felt too large and clumsy for her mouth, but she managed to prompt: "Like?"

Somehow, Olivia worked up another pretty blush, or at least the appearance of one, as she bowed her head slowly and removed her glasses. It was a shame to see them go, but when she traced her bottom lip with the tip of one temple, then snagged it between her teeth and nibbled pensively, Amanda couldn't be too disappointed.

"I touch myself," Olivia confided in a whisper, tremulous with fear and excitement. She began to unbutton her cardigan a little at a time, guiding it open on either side and arching her back until her breasts strained against the white silk of her blouse. She dragged the temple of her glasses down the front of the blouse, in between her breasts, circling the tip around one, then the other. "But I pretend it's you touching me. Here."

"And here?" Amanda cupped her hand to Olivia's pubic mound, an extra sensitive spot for the captain, and ground in with the heel of her palm.

"Mmm, yes." Olivia strove back against the friction, sensually rocking her pelvis and drifting out of focus, her role in the game forgotten. She bit down on the corner of her lip, dark eyes fastened on Amanda, but not really seeing. "Right there . . . "

Amanda obliged, content to watch her getting off—she was so damn gorgeous when she came, all her inhibitions gone, all those small, unnecessary insecurities that were part of being human, and especially part of being a woman, melting away at a simple touch—but Olivia caught her off guard.

A hint of rose-scented perfume wafted up to Amanda as the captain leaned in, clasped a hand lightly to the back of her head, and pulled her close to whisper in one ear, "Wanna know what else I imagine?"

"Yes." Amanda nuzzled into the soft brown tresses by her cheek, drunk on the smell of them, the smell of _her_. If Olivia Benson were booze, Amanda would be a blackout drunk instead of a compulsive gambler. (Recovered compulsive gambler, she reminded herself vaguely. Playing cards and poker chips were the last thing on her mind while she had Olivia like this, literally dripping from her fingertips.)

"I imagine you tying me down and putting your fingers inside of me, as deep as they'll go. Over and over, until I'm begging for release." Olivia rummaged around for something in her lap, their close proximity concealing it from view. A moment later, she pressed it into Amanda's free hand. "Then you put your mouth on me. Lick me, suck me. And I'm completely under your control the whole time. Completely yours, Amanda."

Hearing her name attached to those words should have broken the spell for Amanda—but it did not. Her ears were humming. No, her whole body was humming. In her hand, she held another pair of hose, although these were thigh highs, rather than full tights. Two stockings for two wrists. After much debate, she and Olivia had decided that the slender, stretchy nylon would be the best choice for their foray into the bondage scene. It wouldn't cut into the skin and it provided plenty of leeway. Plus, it fit with the pantyhose theme. If all went well, they could work their way up from there, moving on to scarves, rope, handcuffs. Amanda doubted they would ever make it that far; Olivia had paled at the very mention of the bracelets.

Until the stockings came out, Amanda had almost forgotten about the bondage entirely. A small part of her wished she still could, but she had made a promise and Olivia was willing. God, was she ever willing. Amanda had to admit, the idea of taking control of the situation—of Olivia—did have its appeal. She was (mostly) fine with her captain being the dominant one in the workplace. That was how it was supposed to be. And it made the role reversal during sex even more fun.

She eased her hand out from under Olivia's skirt, smiling at the little noise of protest she received, and got to her feet. First, she kicked off her ballet flats, sweeping them and Olivia's penny loafers out of the way with her foot. Then she removed her headband, which had been giving her a headache since she put it on, and took Olivia's glasses, placing the accessories on the nightstand.

Finally, she resumed her post in front of Olivia, who had watched the whole process with solemn interest and both hands folded neatly in her lap, and she reached around to carefully slide the ponytail ring from the captain's thick chestnut hair. She rolled the elastic band onto her wrist and fluffed the long strands it had held back around Olivia's shoulders, eliciting fluttery eyelashes and a dreamy smile. Olivia loved having her hair played with almost as much as Amanda enjoyed playing with it.

When the mane was tousled to perfection, just the way she liked it, Amanda momentarily admired her work, _her_ girlfriend, then she took Olivia by the chin and lifted it gently to look her full in the face.

"Are you sure this is what _you_ want, darlin'?" she asked meaningfully. She'd broken character a bit with the pet name—her favorite for the woman who was more darling to her than she ever would have dreamed possible—but she had to be absolutely certain of consent before proceeding. It had been denied her by Patton; it had been denied Olivia time and again by men and women. For her own peace of mind, she had to be certain.

Olivia bit the corner of her bottom lip again, and nodded. It was difficult to tell if she was playing the role of shy, inexperienced Sunday school teacher, or if she herself felt some apprehension. This whole scenario had been ambiguous and fraught, to say the least.

"Say it out loud for me." Amanda stroked back some of the hair that had fallen across Olivia's forehead. Her big brown eyes were looking up with such earnestness, it tore at Amanda's heart a little. How could so many people have done so much harm to someone like her?

"Yes. I want this," Olivia said decidedly, and released her tightly clasped hands from her lap, resting them on the edge of the bed. Her posture relaxed, opening up like a flower in bloom.

Ready.

"Okay. Get comfy." Amanda tipped a nod to the pillows that were lined up beneath the headboard of the bed. She chuckled softly to herself at the puzzled look that crossed Olivia's features as she glanced down at her fully clothed body and back up at Amanda, also fully clothed.

The captain did that cute thing where she plopped her mouth shut in a bemused frown, head cocked to one side. She started to remove her cardigan, determined to get naked, even if she had to do it herself, but Amanda wagged a discouraging finger and righted the sweater onto her shoulders.

"Leave it," said Amanda, and bent to scoop up her captain's gloriously long legs, mocha-colored in the pantyhose, and deposit them onto the bed. She massaged Olivia's shoulders lightly as she leaned down to purr in her ear: "You look sweet. Like my good girl. I wanna see you lookin' just like that when I make you come."

If Amanda didn't know any better, she would have guessed Olivia had chosen the hotel based solely on its open-frame headboards. This one had slats that formed a geometric pattern, the squares of which were perfectly designed for holding wrists in place with single column knots. Damn good thing too, because those were the only style of restraints Amanda knew how to tie. She didn't space them too far apart, and she went no higher than midway up the frame.

There wasn't as much give as she'd anticipated and single columns merely tightened the more you struggled, but she kept that detail to herself. Warning Olivia would just make her anxious and more likely to panic. To be on the safe side, Amanda slipped the bight, only taking it halfway through the final loop, so she could pull it free and release the knot at a moment's notice.

She kept an eye on Olivia's breathing as she worked, mindful of any increase in respiration, any hitches or lengthy pauses. But other than peering up inquisitively to watch the knots form overhead, Olivia didn't react much at all. Steady breathing, no signs of distress. Happily, Amanda noted that the same could be said of herself. This was going to be fun after all.

They were far removed from any distractions or interruptions—no sleepy kindergartners to wander in and ask for a glass of water or the potty, no voyeuristic canines to peek over the side of the bed at an inopportune moment—and they had the whole night ahead of them. Meanwhile, she had a beautiful woman at her mercy and a libido that suddenly shifted into overdrive as she surveyed the sight next to her. Olivia's head was cushioned prettily on the pillow, her hands and arms hanging lax from the restraints. Her legs were drawn up and bent at the knee, skirt pooling around the top of her thighs, showcasing the thick, lovely flesh that actually sparkled (although, that might have been the nylon). Amanda couldn't wait to get her hands on it.

"How does this feel?" she asked, touching one of the knots. "Not too tight?"

Olivia gave a small, experimental tug of each wrist. It was barely enough effort to break through tissue paper. "Hm-mmm."

"Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm." And then, noting the skeptical look she received, Olivia added aloud, "Yes."

Somewhere in the back of Amanda's mind a thought echoed, and though it was too distant to make out clearly, the voice repeating it sounded a lot like her own: _I said yes to all of it, right up until I said no_. She shoved the thought away with the brute force of tackling a perp on the run. This was _not_ that.

The cardigan had fallen away on either side of Olivia's chest, her large breasts pushed forward appetizingly in the white silk blouse. The faintest impression of nipple was just visible under the airy fabric. Amanda started there.

She untucked the blouse from Olivia's skirt, grinning a little at the hint of pantyhose that peeked over the waistband. Running her finger under the elastic control top, she let it snap back into place and grinned even wider when the captain sucked in her tummy. Amanda soothed the softly curved abdomen with a loving touch, working her way steadily higher until she reached much less subtle curves. She already felt a twinge of regret for her decision not to undress Olivia, whose nipples were painfully erect inside a lacy bra. She yearned to feel them in her mouth, to trace her tongue around the puckered brownish areola that matched in shade the captain's plentiful freckles. To nip and suck until Olivia hissed in pleasure—and maybe the tiniest sliver of pain.

With her fingers, Amanda imitated those same actions, concentrating on the nuances in Olivia's expression and the sounds she made. Her breathing had quickened, but it always did when she was touched like this. Before Olivia, Amanda had never been with anyone so sensitive and responsive to a simple caress, to a warm kiss. She ate it up like a woman starved. Like she'd been lost in the desert for days and finally happened upon a canteen of cool, clear water.

Amanda was the water.

"Such a good girl," she murmured, kneading at the soft mounds of flesh she could never get enough of, either. Sometimes she craved Olivia the way she used to crave another hand of poker or the feel of dice rolling around in her palm. "Bet you say your prayers every night, don't you, sweet one?"

A soft whimper was Olivia's only reply, her top teeth sunken deeply into her plump bottom lip. She had closed her eyes, face turned against her arm, but she opened them now and tried to reach for Amanda. When her hands wouldn't budge, she blinked in surprise and tittered girlishly. Her head rose from the pillow for a moment, then flumped back down, dark hair blossoming around it. "Where are you going?" she asked as Amanda got to her knees on the mattress and shuffled towards the end of the bed.

"I think it's time I showed you how I pray." Amanda settled at Olivia's feet, laying hands on the captain's upraised knees. She applied the slightest pressure, making her intentions known, but waited for them to separate on their own. "Would you like that?"

"Y-yes." Olivia's legs slackened, thighs parting to Amanda's hands as they stroked and massaged their way down. Her eyes were darkened by lust as she watched, the lids so heavy she looked as if she were sleeping. Finally, she did close them, tilting her head back and licking her lips several times while Amanda trailed kisses along the same path she'd just been stroking.

Amanda took a mischievous nip at one inner thigh, pinching the pantyhose with her teeth and letting them snap again. Olivia's hips jerked in reaction, or it might have been from the hand between her legs, rubbing the small wet spot that darkened the nylon. When Amanda traded places, pressing her lips there for a decadent, open-mouthed kiss—despite the barrier—Olivia gasped and yanked once on the restraints, hard.

"Shit," she said breathlessly, and tried to grip one of the squares in the headboard. Her hands wouldn't twist that way and she struggled for a second, then went limp against the ties, upper body sagging in defeat.

"Good shit or bad shit?" Amanda asked, nuzzling at Olivia's fleshy, aromatic labia. Even those were pretty, opening on a labyrinth of intricate folds and spicy, rose petal skin. She wanted to see it without the pantyhose obstructing her view, but first she had to be sure her partner was okay.

"Good." Olivia nodded vigorously. "Good. Keep go—"

The moment she had confirmation, Amanda tore out the gusset of the pantyhose, creating a wide hole in the nylon and exposing Olivia fully. It surprised Amanda almost as much as it surprised Olivia, who gave a startled little cry and jerked on the restraints so hard the frame rattled.

She bucked forward, shimmying the mattress, and growled in frustration. But she didn't say no and she didn't say stop.

She did say, "Fuck," practically breathing it into existence, her chest heaving inside the white silk. Her nipples stood out prominently now, straining against the blouse as she strained against the knots.

"Is that any way for a nice Christian girl to talk?" Amanda asked, attempting to keep the role play alive. It had gotten lost somewhere along the way, probably around the time she stuck her face between Olivia's legs. Speaking of which. She leaned in for a long, ravenous lick.

"D-don't— don't call me that," Olivia said, and turned her face to stifle a moan against her arm. She bit down on silk and the flesh beneath, and whined, "Please."

"Why?" Amanda grazed her thumb back and forth over Olivia's clit, teasing at her entrance with the opposite hand. She was a little drier than Amanda expected, which was surprising, considering her own panties were soaked. "Are you a bad girl, Olivia Benson? Should I make you get on your knees and pray for forgiveness?"

"I— please."

Amanda knew she should make the short trip to her overnight bag in the corner and retrieve the lube from the front pouch, but she didn't want to leave Olivia at such a crucial moment. So she did what Detective Amanda Rollins did best, and improvised. Carefully, she released a delicate stream of saliva over Olivia's center, wetted her fingers in it, and pushed two inside with a smooth thrust. God, she would never get tired of doing that.

Olivia made a small strangled noise in the back of her throat and shuddered. At first, it felt like she was already coming, her muscles contracting around Amanda's fingers, her body stiffening as if she'd just gotten a jolt of electricity. "Wait, I . . . no, please—" She took a deep, stuttering breath and called out in a frantic voice, "Stop. Church. Church!"

**. . .**

* * *

_Chapter 3 coming soon._


	3. Amen, Amen, Amen

**A/N: **Last chapter. Trigger warnings still apply. Thanks for reading.

* * *

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife  
Offer me that deathless death  
Good God, let me give you my life

\- "Take Me to Church," Hozier

* * *

**Chapter 3:** Amen, Amen, Amen

**. . .**

The captain began to writhe, and by the time Amanda realized what was happening and withdrew her hand, Olivia had reached absolute panic. She wrestled uselessly with the bulky nylon knots, only succeeding in cinching them tighter. The way she wrenched her arms around, Amanda feared she would reinjure her shoulder. Why hadn't they considered that beforehand?

"Get these things off me," she pleaded, genuine terror in her wide brown eyes. Her feet pedaled on either side of Amanda, heels digging into the bed covers, but finding no purchase. "I need them off. Now."

Amanda crawled up her girlfriend's thrashing body to grab at the ties, trying to find the bight among the various loops she had made minutes earlier. "I know, baby, I'm tryin'. You gotta hold still." She located an excess bit of stocking, and praying it was the right end, pulled. Nothing. _Fuck! _"Hold still, Liv. Almost got it."

That had been a flat-out lie, but when she gave the bight another mighty tug, it suddenly loosened and the entire sock unwound from Olivia's wrist like a shriveling vine. "Hang on. Let me," Amanda said, reaching across to the other restraint Olivia clawed at. That one came undone with a single yank, and all at once, the captain was free and squirming out from under Amanda to slam herself back against the headboard, at the farthest corner of the bed.

She drew her knees up under her skirt and hugged them, huddling into a tight ball. Her feet poked out from under the skirt, one resting atop the other, the pantyhose seams crooked across her toes. She was trembling so badly it shook the mattress on Amanda's end.

"What's wrong?" Amanda asked, reaching out her hand, but immediately drawing back when Olivia shied from it. She knew her captain had just experienced a panic attack or flashback of some kind, and she shouldn't take it personally; nevertheless, it stung a little to be rejected. "Was I too rough? Did I hurt ya?"

For several moments, Olivia wouldn't speak. Almost didn't seem able to. She scrubbed her mouth back and forth against her knee compulsively, then dug her top teeth into it hard enough to leave a mark. "No," she said thinly, and took a breath as if there were more to add. Only, it didn't come. Her eyes were out of focus, staring at something in the middle distance.

"Did I go too fast? Was it because I ripped your pantyhose?" Amanda inwardly cursed herself for that bit of inspiration. It had seemed sexy as hell when she was caught up in the moment, but now, with Olivia literally cowering from her, it felt insensitive—monstrous, even. Fleetingly, she recalled her own tattered blouse from the encounter with Patton. It had no buttons, so he'd torn it right up the middle. Later, she'd burned it and the rest of her clothes from that night in a wastebasket in her kitchen, setting off every smoke alarm in the apartment.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn'ta done that to you, darlin'," she said, shaking her head at her own stupidity. This whole thing was a bad idea from the get-go, and she had known it. She should have trusted her instincts, but she'd tuned them out, telling herself Olivia was a grown woman who knew what she wanted. If the captain was ready to explore some new sexual territory, who was Amanda to say no?

Or . . .

Or had Amanda just been so eager for sex, she'd ignored all the warning signs on purpose? She had gotten turned on seeing Olivia vulnerable and there for the taking. _Her_ taking. For a second, before she knew something was wrong, she had even enjoyed watching Olivia struggle against the stockings.

"Shit, Liv." She wrung her hands anxiously in her lap. She didn't know what to do with herself if she wasn't holding the other woman or offering some sort of comforting touch. Maybe it wasn't only Olivia who craved their physical contact after all. "I'm so damn sorry."

"Stop." Olivia shook her head, but she reached a hand over for Amanda to take, without moving from her spot in the corner and without unfurling from a hard, protective little ball. When their hands were joined, stretched across the bed like lovers parting in a movie—fate taking the couple in opposite, far-flung directions—Olivia held on so tightly it hurt. "This isn't your fault. It's me. I thought . . . I thought I could take it."

Amanda turned towards her, sitting cross-legged with an elbow on one knee. She leaned in, closing some more of the distance. "Take it? What does that mean? Take being tied up?"

A sickened expression passed over Olivia's features, and Amanda considered grabbing the ice bucket or the wastebasket from the bathroom. There was nothing weak about the captain except, on occasion, her stomach. But she had Amanda in a death grip, and she looked more heartsick than nauseated.

"Yeah," she said dully, her eyes brimming with tears. She didn't let them fall, though. She'd done a lot less crying lately, which had seemed like a good thing. Like progress. "I thought enough time had gone by. That I could do it without thinking of . . . them."

Them. Amanda didn't need to ask who they were. Olivia's ghosts had long since become her ghosts as well. Most days it was fine; it felt good to walk ahead, wielding the torch and battling back the demons that ran rampant in the darkest corners of Olivia's mind. It felt noble and brave and made it easier for Amanda to forget about her own problems—those specters she had once called chief and daddy.

But she'd failed horribly at protecting Olivia this time. Worse yet, she had become the one Olivia needed protection from. Maybe she should have grabbed a puke bucket after all. For herself.

"Why would you think you had to?" she asked, a brittleness in her tone she hadn't expected. That was never a good sign. She should just stop talking Right Fucking Now. "Who the hell said you needed to 'take' anything?"

Olivia noticed the change too, her watery gaze flickering over to Amanda with uncertainty and more than a little shame. "No one said I had to," she practically whispered, her voice getting lost in the folds of the skirt draped over her knees. She turned her cheek against it, an imploring look in her dark eyes. "I just . . . wanted to. For you. And for me. To prove that I could."

It was difficult for Amanda to be angry, with Olivia peering up at her like that, so fragile and in need of reassurance. Difficult, but not impossible. "Don't. Don't you put this on me." She released the captain's hand, pulling free when it didn't let go of hers. She got to her feet at the far side of the bed, needing some distance. If she could see Olivia shaking, or feel the mattress shuddering beneath her, she'd never finish saying her piece. (But God, wouldn't it have been better if she hadn't?) "I didn't ask for this. It was your idea. And for what, Liv? To see how far I'd go? To hurt yourself and use me to do it? Jesus, that's so—"

She had almost used her old standby, the word she relied on when she was irrationally angry or upset and making a scene—_stupid_. It was a weak, childish word, and one she hated to hear coming out of her own mouth. It was the kind of thing her father used to scream while he beat the shit out of her mother. And after that look on Olivia's face when Amanda had let the word slip during their argument about food a couple weeks ago, she had vowed to never use it again.

"Is this like the not eating thing?" she asked with a heavy sigh. When she got no response, just a forlorn and grievously wounded expression from the woman she loved most in the world  
(_please god I want to stop_)  
she gave another exasperated huff and let her hands slap against her thighs. "Are you trying to retraumatize yourself? Or hell, retraumatize _both_ of us?"

"What?" Olivia stared at her, aghast. Her bottom lip and chin were quivering uncontrollably and the teardrops were collecting on her bottom lashes, poised to fall. She wasn't going to win this fight.

Normally, it would have been enough to stop Amanda cold and send her straight to Olivia's side, remorseful and apologetic. But now it made her angrier. She hadn't been so enraged since that day at the courthouse, waiting to testify in the Pearl woman's trial for murder. She'd wanted to annihilate anyone who got in her way that day, reducing them to a pile of ash with her words—and if she hadn't exercised every last ounce of self-control, her fists.

The bitch of it was, she hadn't even known exactly why she was so mad. She certainly didn't give a shit about some bastard who psychologically terrorized his wife, cop or not; and she should have sympathized with the wife, she knew that. But once she'd started down that path, taking up for the dead husband who was most likely an abusive prick, there had been no turning back. That was what her anger felt like now. A runaway train, and Amanda was just along for the ride.

"You bring me to a hotel room to sleep with my boss. You tell me to tie you up and fuck you." She paced back and forth, counting the grievances off on her fingers as she listed them. "You wait till I'm inside you to . . ."

Olivia began to weep openly, the tears coursing down her cheeks in silence, her eyes following every one of Amanda's big, impassioned gestures. She didn't look frightened. In fact, she looked resigned, as if she had known this day would come. As if she was used to being yelled at by a raging lunatic.

"Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?" Amanda halted in place, arms out expectantly at her sides, waiting for an answer she didn't really think would come. She wouldn't answer herself if the tables were turned.

"No," Olivia said sadly, her voice steadier than it should have been, considering how much she was crying. She did take a few hitching breaths before she could continue, and she finally emerged from her tight little cocoon, extending both legs with stiff, careful movements. "I don't know how it makes you feel. I don't know how anything makes you feel, Amanda, because you never tell me. And if I ask, you either shut me out or you bite my head off. Or both."

"Well." Amanda had no defense against that one, mainly because it was true. So, she did the next best thing—she bit. "I'll tell you how that made me feel," she said, jabbing a finger at the stockings that still dangled like pathetic, limp cocks from the bed frame. "That made me feel like a goddamn rapist."

An eternity seemed to pass while they processed what she had said. Amanda didn't even know if it was true or not. It didn't matter, though. Once she saw the look on Olivia's face, she knew there was no taking it back. She didn't recall ever seeing such an expression on her captain's face before—until now, she thought she had memorized every detail of those lovely features by heart—and she hoped to never see it there again. Olivia looked like she had just been gutted with a rusty steak knife.

She looked crushed beyond repair.

And when she cast herself face down on the bed, sobbing into her open palms and apologizing over and over again, Amanda feared she had done just that—crushed every bit of progress Olivia had made towards putting herself back together after Calvin and Amelia, after Orion. And destroyed whatever love she had for Amanda, whatever trust. Amanda had hurled mean words just as ruthlessly as her daddy hurled his fists, and with the same results. Maybe no broken bones, but definitely a shattered heart.

She went to Olivia then, crawling up beside her on the bed and practically lifting her under the arms like a child to pull her into a fierce embrace. When the captain was sobbing against her chest instead of the bed covers, Amanda pressed rough kisses into her dark hair, brushing the long strands down her back with firm, repetitive strokes. "Shh, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that," she said, choking on the lump of emotion lodged in her throat like a hot coal. "I'm so sorry, Liv. I swear to God, I didn't mean it."

"Then why did you say it?" Olivia asked, barely intelligible over the crying. She seldom fell apart, but when she did, it was the same way she did everything else—with her entire heart and soul. If she had taken a breath in the past several moments, Amanda hadn't heard it. "I would _never_ . . . I c-couldn't . . . "

Whatever Olivia was trying to put into words didn't come, but Amanda got the gist: she would never intentionally put either of them in this position; she couldn't have known how horribly wrong the game would go. She could never hurt Amanda like that on purpose.

"I know, darlin'. I'm just— I'm just a dumbass, okay?" Amanda tried to lean back and nudge Olivia's chin up for a look in her eyes, but the captain wasn't having it. She kept her head down stubbornly, wetting the front of Amanda's blazer with her tears, the lapels clutched in her fists. "I get upset and say whatever crazy thing pops into my head first, you know that. It's my worst quality, and I hate it. I was just scared. Thought I hurt you, and I'd rather die than do something like that."

"Don't say that." Olivia was still crying, her back quaking with deep, bone-rattling tremors and erratic breathing, but she had a little more control over her voice now. She had finally inhaled.

"It's true. If I thought for one minute I reminded you of any of those fuckers who hurt you—"

"You don't. It wasn't you. I can't— not being able to move my hands . . . " Olivia released the lapels and flexed her fingers several times, as if they had gone numb and she was restoring blood flow. "It just took me right back there. And being called a good girl, a _nice_—" She stopped short, shuddering in Amanda's embrace.

Amanda had to strain to hear the conclusion, which was something softer than a whisper, something as ephemeral as a sigh: "Lewis called me that. A nice girl. And Harris said I was a good girl when he put himself . . . "

Olivia touched her lips tentatively, unable to finish. She looked to Amanda now, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes pleading for a reprieve from the rest of the story; from repeating the horrible truth she'd spoken aloud one late night, all those months ago, when she couldn't hold it in any longer without self-destructing. She had seemed so much better since then. Or was that just wishful thinking?

"When he raped you," Amanda supplied in her gentlest tone. At the same time, her arms tightened instinctually around the captain, as if she could somehow protect her from the violation this long after the fact. Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, nodding almost imperceptibly.

So, Amanda had reminded her of those scumbag rapists after all. And it didn't matter how inadvertently it had come about, or how many precautions she had taken against it, she'd still hurt Olivia in a way that felt irrevocable and insurmountable. Perhaps she hadn't spoken completely out of turn with the comment about feeling like a rapist. But was it really necessary to hit Olivia with that when she was already down and utterly defenseless?

Just because a jugular was exposed didn't mean Amanda should sink her teeth into it.

"I'm so sorry." She didn't know what else to say. (Funny, she could think of all the right words to make it hurt the most, but never the right ones to help soothe the pain.) It took a moment for her to realize why her vision was suddenly blurry. Feebly, she pressed her forehead to Olivia's and let the teardrops fall. "I didn't know. I swear to God, Liv, I didn't know."

Olivia removed the hand from her own lips and covered Amanda's, fingers just barely making contact with skin. "You couldn't have. It's my fault. I should have told you, but I— I didn't know, either. Not until I heard it. Not until I felt . . . " She opened her eyes and slid her palm over to Amanda's cheek, her other hand joining on the opposite side, to swipe the tears away with her thumbs. "Do I really make you think of him? Patton."

She whispered the name so softly it was almost pretty. Like the lyrics of a sad old song. Amanda reached up to cradle Olivia's face in her hands, mirroring her captain. She gave the tiniest, tenderest of shakes, for a moment reminded of the fire and brimstone preachers during prayer service, the laying on of hands. But it passed quickly, and she looked Olivia directly in the eye, unashamed of the tears. "Absolutely not. Do you hear me? He's a sick fuck who abused his power and took advantage of women so he'd have someplace to stick his shriveled little dick after his wife got tired of it. That is not what you do. Ever. And that is not what happened here."

"But the hotel—"

"Has nothing to do with it. It's four walls and nothing more." Well, that was a lie and not a very good one, but up until now she had believed it to be true. Just as she had believed Olivia knew her own limitations well enough to go along with this horrendously bad idea. "Can I ask why you picked a hotel, instead of staying at home, though?"

Easing back a little, Olivia swiped under her nose with the heel of her palm and gazed around the room slowly. She studied everything but the headboard. That, she refused to acknowledge. "I thought it would be better if we were out of the apartment, where the kids could walk in. After that night in the living room— you know . . . Jo and Maggie?"

Amanda nodded. She would never forget that night, role-playing Detective Jo Rollins, the tough-talking and unscrupulous P. I. who couldn't wait to bed the tall, brunette seductress Marguerite, otherwise known as Maggie. Otherwise known as Olivia Margaret Benson. It had been the most fun and quite possibly the hottest sex Amanda ever had. It had been for Olivia, too—hadn't it?

Practically reading Amanda's mind, Olivia said, "That was perfect and so amazing."

"But?"

"But later, when I thought about Jesse wandering in and what she might have seen, what any of the kids could have seen . . . " Olivia blanched and gave a shake of her mussed brown hair. She looked almost more ashamed now than she had during Amanda's tantrum. "It reminded me of walking in on my mom servicing that guy when I was a kid. How much that affected me. I don't want that to happen to our kids."

As Amanda was about to point out that seeing their mothers, who loved each other fiercely and passionately, expressing that love in a healthy, positive way would be far less detrimental to a child than witnessing their drunken mother giving a blowjob to a complete stranger—and then being physically abused by said mother—Olivia added vaguely, "And it brought up some other things."

"Other things?" Amanda prompted, sweeping a lock of hair behind Olivia's ear to get a better look at her downturned face. She suspended her fingertips lightly under the captain's chin, but let Olivia be the one who decided whether or not to make eye contact. It took several moments, several false starts before her gaze finally drifted upwards.

"The way I got off. On your thigh." Olivia bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, and Amanda couldn't help but wonder how often that had been her only defense, the only means of escape from the horrors unfolding around her. Unfolding on (or in) her body. "It's the same thing Amelia did to me. I used you like she used me, for my own perverted—"

"Hey, no. You listen here." Amanda settled her palms on Olivia's shoulders and shook her head adamantly. "That is _not_ the same. You didn't use me for anything. I was one hundred percent on board with that. Baby, I love makin' you feel good. Hell, sometimes I think I like getting you off more than I like getting off myself. And there's nothing wrong with how you did it. You go right ahead and do whatever feels best to you, 'cause you know I'm game."

"That's just it," Olivia said pointedly, then faltered almost at once. She worried her bottom lip this time, as if fearful of what it might say next. She looked even younger and more vulnerable when she did that. "You're always so . . . ready. So free. And that's not a criticism, I love that about you. But sex is more complicated for me. Sometimes I can't— sometimes I can't let go like that. And I'm just so afraid . . . "

Tears were swimming in Olivia's eyes again, and the rest of the sentence seemed to have caught somewhere in her throat. Amanda stroked her hair encouragingly and, with the patient tone she used when one of the kids had trouble articulating strong emotions, asked, "Afraid of what, darlin'?"

"I'm afraid I'll lose you." Olivia let the tears fall in earnest, making no attempt to hold them back or hide her face. She seldom looked anyone directly in the eye while she cried, even Amanda. "I'm afraid you'll get bored if I can't keep up with you. I wouldn't blame you if you did. You deserve someone who's not so— not this—" She made a small, helpless gesture, and lowered her head to weep as despairingly as an abandoned child. "God, I'm still just so broken."

The sorrow that gripped Amanda's heart was so profound, she nearly gasped in pain. She guided Olivia's head onto her shoulder, shushing and petting and feeling utterly useless to ease the other woman's suffering. This went much deeper than fear of losing a relationship, or being triggered by a sex game gone wrong. If Amanda were still a betting woman, she'd put good money on this being an issue that stemmed from Olivia's childhood—the idea her mother had instilled in her that she was unlovable, unwanted, and tainted since birth. No, even before that. Since conception. Olivia had said it herself: she was worried her experience at ten years old had shaped her entire view of sex and violence. But it went further back than that, to the way she came into the world. Only to be reinforced time after time during adulthood. Only to be thrown back in her face and berated for by her damn girlfriend. Why the hell hadn't Amanda just kept her stupid trap shut?

"Aw, Liv. Is that what's been eatin' at you all this time? Worrying I'm going to get bored or something?" Amanda pressed her lips to Olivia's nodding forehead and left them there long after the kiss ended. "That's never gonna happen. I do like sex. Love it, even. But I love you more. You're what makes the sex so damn good in the first place, darlin'. Getting to be that close to you, share that intimacy—it actually means something to me now. And if you told me that you never wanted to do it again, well . . . I'd be disappointed for sure, but I'd learn to live with it. So long as I got to be with you."

"Really?" Olivia sounded simultaneously doubtful and hopeful.

Without a moment's hesitation, Amanda said, "Yep." It would be more complicated than that, of course, and they both knew it. But she believed wholeheartedly that it was true. She would do whatever it took to be with Olivia Benson. Her captain. Her city girl. "You're more important to me than a few minutes of fun in the sack. If you need to slow things down for a while or . . . altogether—"

"I'm not saying that."

_Oh, praise the Lord_, Amanda thought, but managed not to breathe a sigh of relief. She could abstain from sex only so long before she started to get grouchy and mean. Too long, and she turned to much unhealthier outlets to slake her appetite. She didn't want to find out what she would turn to if her hunger for Olivia went unnourished.

"I like sex too," Olivia said, her tone charmingly frank as she peered up through long eyelashes. Amanda couldn't resist another kiss to the forehead. "A lot. And with you . . . it's the best it's ever been. I guess I just want to be able to try different things and keep it interesting." She cast a wary look beyond Amanda's shoulder, which blocked her view of the headboard and the dead stockings. "But some things, I— I can't."

The admission sounded as foreign to Amanda's ears as it did coming from Olivia's lips. But it felt momentous somehow. Like a step in the right direction. Or at least Amanda hoped so.

"And you know what?" She relaxed the arm that held Olivia up, letting her settle back far enough to gaze into her pretty face. "That's totally okay. We don't have to try everything. Some stuff . . . "

Outside, Amanda only struggled for a moment to find the proper wording; inside, it seemed like forever. "Some stuff just ain't gonna be good. For either of us," she finally said, cringing inwardly at the stilted delivery. (She wondered if there would ever be a time any reference to Patton, no matter how indirect, didn't make her skin crawl. It had been ten years, for Christ's sake.) "And I don't want you doing things that don't feel right to you anymore, ya hear? No more trying to 'take it.' I'm plenty interested, without all that _Twenty-Five Acts_ crap. Just . . . talk to me next time, Liv. Tell me what you're feeling before we get to this point."

"Will you do the same?" Olivia asked, absent the least bit of guile or rebuke. It was a simple question, in search of a simple answer. A deserved answer. "I need to know how you're feeling sometimes, too."

It was stated so delicately it almost sounded like an apology. Amanda squeezed Olivia tight, praying she could follow through when she replied, "Yeah, I will. I promise."

"Do you want to go home?" Olivia asked a while later, when they were exchanging contagious yawns instead of conversation.

"Nah. We're all paid up for the night. Let's stay."

Olivia hesitated as she watched Amanda untying one of the stockings from the headboard. After a moment, she joined in, freeing the mate and wadding it up with the other. She rolled the ball around in her hands a few times, then abruptly pitched it out of sight. "Are you sure? We can try to get a refund. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"I'm not." Amanda thought it over after she said it, relieved to find it was true. Four walls and nothing more. No damask bedspread, no Jack Daniels. Nothing but the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, who had chosen her—_needed_ her—for some reason unbeknownst to Amanda. "Let's stay. I just wanna lie here and hold you for a while. Can we do that?"

"Yes."

When Olivia began to undress, Amanda placed a hand on her arm, stopping her as she was about to lift the silk blouse over her head.

"You don't have to," Amanda said, though her heartbeat fluttered wildly in her chest, like a burst of winged things upon release—butterflies or doves. Pretty, untamed things. It always did that when Olivia took off her clothes; she had a feeling it always would.

"I know. I want to." A soft smile graced Olivia's lips and she swept the blouse up and over, spilling her long locks around her bare shoulders so artfully it could have been practiced. "Besides, these pantyhose are disgusting. I feel like haggis."

Following the captain's lead, Amanda unbuttoned her blazer and shrugged it off. She hadn't worn a blouse underneath, just her whitest and laciest bra. It probably looked ridiculous with her fake pearls and high-waisted pants, but Olivia eyed her with an ever-widening grin. "Daphne would be disappointed she didn't think of that comparison first," Amanda said, her own gaze roving as Olivia unzipped her skirt at the waistband, worked it down her hips and thighs, and gave it an expert kick aside with one shapely foot. "Being part Scottish and all."

"She's part Scottish?" Olivia tilted her head, regarding Amanda thoughtfully as the blue twill pants came off, revealing the lacy white panties underneath. They were the most godly-looking underwear Amanda had been able to find among the pile stuffed into her dresser drawer, but they still didn't entirely cover her ass cheeks. "Well, that explains a lot."

"Yeah. How about we forget that Tyler broad for the time bein'," Amanda suggested, voice trailing off as she drank in the sight of Olivia inching her way out of the torn nylons. Hastily, Amanda slid off her own panties and unhooked her bra, discarding both without a second glance. She touched one of the hands Olivia had slipped inside the control-top band to slide the pantyhose down, down, down. "Let me?"

Olivia eased her hands out of the way for Amanda to take charge. "Yes," she said, shifting her hips and legs as needed to help glide the stockings off.

"Yes," she said again, when Amanda paused with the clasp of her bra in hand, dotting kisses along the slope of one freckled shoulder.

And as they spooned together beneath the covers, Amanda in back, nuzzling into the soft, sweet strands that were as intoxicating as any drug and reaching around to stroke her fingers through divine silky warmth, Olivia said yes and yes and yes and . . .

**. . .**

**THE END**


End file.
